


Fit A Skeleton Inside My Skin

by oddishly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-26
Updated: 2011-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-28 03:39:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddishly/pseuds/oddishly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is just confused. It's not an excuse Dean gets to use on himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fit A Skeleton Inside My Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Written for orbiting-saturn! and including porn and angst and pre-series boys, as per her request.

John has left them alone for the week, maybe longer. Probably longer. Left before Sam got home from school this afternoon and won't be back before he's dealt with the rash of shtrigas mottling up West Virginia, and the only unusual part is that he didn't stick around long enough to give Sam his usual checklist of reasons to be there when he gets back. Run an extra half mile in the mornings, don't stay up reading all night, clean your goddamn gun after you're done with it. Do what your brother tells you to. Dean isn't sure why he bothers with that last one. The _only_ thing Sam does under order is what Dean tells him to.

He gives Sam as long as it takes to make himself a sandwich, burning the bacon almost black because no matter what Dean tries, his brother's still a weirdo, and then he says, "Dad'll be back for Christmas. Should give you some time to work on your left." He waits. "Sam. Up and at 'em, dude."

"I heard you," Sam mumbles. He finishes his mouthful. "Fine, whatever. We can fight. If you really want me to show you up again."

Well, that's a lie for starters. "I really want _Dad_ to get off my back about teaching you to fight with a disadvantage. You're cramping my style, Sammy. Got better places to be than looking after your ass all the time."

"You know that two black eyes aren't going to get that Clara girl to sleep with you."

"Yeah, well, let's start with one and see how far you get with that with your good arm behind your back." Clara's pretty well acquainted with the backseat of the Impala already, actually, but Sam doesn't need to know that. Dean gives the back door a yank. "Come outside when you're done with that."

Mr and Mrs Rightful Owner kept chickens last time they were here. There's a lean-to shed outside with a dozen nest boxes and a lot of leftover straw all matted together, and a big tub of feed in a corner with the lid half off. There's not much left, and two small birds are doing their bit for what is. Dean spends a moment thinking about staying somewhere with real chickens, eggs for breakfast every day and he could probably convince Sam to do all the cooking, too. No way to do it in a squat but maybe one of Dad's buddies keeps them.

"I'm not fighting you in here," says Sam from behind him, and fuck if Dean doesn't jump half out of his skin. He scowls at Sam, who looks unforgivably pleased to have scared him, and follows him outside.

He assesses his belt against Sam's and decides his own is too new. "Belt off," he says.

"Is this really necessary?"

"You want to get this over with or not?" Dean takes the belt and starts looping it around Sam's right arm, just tight enough that even when Sam isn’t standing frozen, like say right now, he's not going to be slipping free any time soon. Then he pulls Sam's arm behind his back, fitting the ends of the belt through the hoop on the other side of his body and buckling it on the tightest hole. Sam's jeans are old, barely long enough even when they're falling down his hips, and the hoops are fraying. "Don't fight against it too hard."

"Fine." Sam turns his back to head for a patch of long grass down the path. Fucking hell, it's like he's _trying_ to get himself hit.

"Hey, Sam?" Dean says, and gets his fist in Sam's sternum before he's finished turning, making full use of his momentum against him. Sam stumbles back. "Pay attention."

"Fuck you, I am," Sam snaps. He keeps walking back but at least he's facing Dean this time, keeping his gaze on Dean's face. It's a long time since they shared an excuse to watch each other in daylight.

"Doesn't look like it." Dean feints in on the left, gets him somewhere high enough on his bound arm that it sends him in a backwards half-spin, fucking Sam _still_ isn't protecting himself even with a blindingly obvious disadvantage. "Looks like you're too busy listening to me instead of watching where I'm going to get you next."

"Wrong," says Sam, and dodges out of Dean's reach before pitching back in, slamming his fist into Dean's waist hard enough and tight enough that Dean feels it reverberate through. Sam follows it up by bringing his elbow down hard on his collarbone and an awkward punch against his side that still gets Dean bent in two.

Sam doesn't do a goddamn thing about it. He hesitates for a fraction of a second instead of following up with a fist to knock Dean's head back or a knee in his groin. Dean doesn't bother standing, just hurls himself forwards and into Sam's middle, sending them flying backwards and to the ground. "Pay the fuck attention," he growls, and cuts himself off the moment he gets his head up enough to catch Sam's expression. Eyes screwed shut in pain and mouth wide, and _now_ Dean notices that his whole body is thrown and arching beneath him.

Dean scrambles off. "Sam," he says. "Sammy." He crawls up to kneel at Sam's head, gets his hands on Sam's face and smoothes along the pain lines. Fuck, fuck, they barely even got started, what's happened –

Sam takes a noisy breath and opens his eyes. "I'm okay," he says, the most blatant lie Dean's heard him tell since they were kids. He fists his free hand and tosses it Dean's way; it glances off Dean's jaw. Dean catches his arm and looks all the way down the arch of his hips, all the way back up.

"Stop it, you little shit. What the fuck did you do?"

Sam chews on his lip. He stops moving. "My hand," he says. "I think – "

Dean pulls Sam upright so he can take a look, then swears and yanks the belt away. Sam's hand is bloody and grit, fingers folded protectively over the palm, and when he uncurls them, a shard of bottle glass rolls out and into the grass. There's blood soaking out of the cut and down his wrist. Sam flinches when Dean flattens his hand out some more. "Yeah, you really look okay."

Sam keeps his palm open but brushes the tips of his fingers against Dean's, which Dean allows only because Sam is quite obviously fighting back tears. Sam almost makes it sound convincing when he says, "Not your fault, Dean."

"Shut up, Sam." He pulls Sam back to the house, fingers tight around his forearm. This is more prolonged contact than Dean's allowed himself in weeks. Longer.

Neither of them says anything until Dean's got Sam's hand under the icy water, holding him down so he can't pull away from the stinging; blood and grit dirtying up the tiny kitchen sink. "One stitch," Dean says now he can see properly. He peers closer. "Or two. It's not as bad as it looked out there."

"Told you," says Sam. He presses into Dean, knee-thigh-hip. Dean lets him stay there until he turns the water off, and then he pulls a chair out from the table and gestures him towards it.

There are needles, thread and antiseptic under the sink, and bandages and painkillers. Dean lays them out on the table and hops up next to them, turning Sam's hand up on his knee and spending as long as he's willing to allow himself just looking down at him. Sometimes he misses getting to do that all the time. It's not like he ever had to limit how much he loved Sam when Sam was small.

"You might want to. Chew on the belt, or something," he says abruptly. "Though it's not going to taste any good."

Sam's hand slips fractionally from Dean's knee to the inside of his thigh. "I'll survive," he says without looking at Dean.

-

Sam doesn't say a word as Dean drives him into school the next day. He stares out of the passenger window the whole five miles, body angled away from Dean and head tipped against the glass, and leaves his hand cradled palm-up on his knee. What Dean really wants is to pick it up and lay it against his cheek, because his skin is cold and there is no fucking way that cut burns any less than a brand, and because Sam gets to have whatever he wants when his brother's put half a broken bottle through him. "You didn't have to come to school," he says instead. "I don't care if you don't want to."

Sam says, "I care," and picks up his bag.

Dean takes his foot off the pedal with an effort. "Whatever. Don't fuck your hand up even more. You've still got to practice, Dad's gonna want to see." He hesitates. "Uh – not today, though. Get one of your dork friends to take notes for you."

Sam doesn't answer. He swings the door open wide enough that he can slam it shut once he's out, and sticks his head back through the window to tell Dean, "I'll get the bus home, you don't need to come out here." He straightens up, slinging his bag over his shoulder and quick-marching away from the car. Well. All right, then.

No surprises here, but Dean's not getting any better at turning off all the things he wants to do to his brother, and he's not getting anything from the knowledge that flat out _maiming_ Sam hasn't guilted him out of wanting to fuck him. He spends the morning cleaning up the house before giving the car a quick look over – maybe it's the other way around – and decides at lunch to save his dad a job and go buy some Christmas food for the three of them. And beer, he thinks.

He slopes around the store picking up whatever looks good, adds four boxes of honey nut cornflakes to the cart because Sam hates the stuff, and looks up to find himself in the middle of the diaper aisle. Looks like Christmas is a popular time of year to buy diapers because half the shelves are empty, so Dean does his bit to fill them by emptying the cart of most of the crap he's just put into it. He adds two boxes of cereal to the shelf because he's not so fond of honey nut either and it's not like they're rolling in money, and takes the rest up to the checkout.

He goes to Clara's till completely by accident. He realises as he's counting out his cash that the only reason he's not putting any effort into flirting with her is because he's too busy thinking about Sam promising to give him two black eyes, and without stopping to think, blurts, "You want to come to my place when your shift's done?" Apparently he's gone and turned into Sam now, smooth talker that he is.

Clara looks taken aback but she smiles at him anyway. "I get an hour for lunch," she tells him. "I'll come and find you outside."

Sam isn't getting back from school for another couple hours at least. That's just about perfect in Dean's book, because right now he's got Clara in his lap in the kitchen and he'd quite like to keep her there for a while. Doesn't bother pulling his jeans off, just shoves them down to his knees and rips the foil open with his teeth, and now she's sinking down on his cock. Up and all the way down again, so wet, her hair short and falling into her eyes the same way Sam's does, Dean's not fucking perfect, and her body is straight and firm under his hands. She's got the same determined look on her face that Dean noticed her for first, her lip caught between her teeth. He can feel her squeezing around his cock then relaxing again as she comes up and it's fucking awesome: _fuck_ , Dean does not want this to stop.

He shuts his eyes and lets his head fall back over the edge of the chair. This is exactly what he needs; can forget all about his absent father, all of the ways he's messed up his brother, the milk that's right now spoiling in the back of the car. There's a girl moaning in his ear and that's enough because it has to be.

He opens his eyes when Clara's breathy noises cut off. "You gonna make me do all the work?" she asks him, and leans down to kiss him quick. "Because I don't need you here for that." She pulls off enough that just the very tip of his dick is inside her, takes one of his hands from her waist and places it very deliberately on her breast.

Dean grins at her. He is so, so close to coming, and his legs aren't going to hold. "All right," he says, and gets his arm all the way around her, staggering to his feet. His cock slips out as he lowers her onto the dining table so he kisses her instead, doing his best to kick his jeans off but leaving his shirt on. There is a very good chance the table only has this one fuck left in it, but that's okay because they definitely don't have enough time to go again. Dean pushes his first two fingers inside her as he climbs up, and bites down on his tongue until he's sure he's not going to call her by his brother's name. She's got her head turned to the side, her hair swept into her eyes, and Dean's aware he's being a complete dick to her but that doesn't mean he has to rub it in her face. He brushes her hair aside, leaning down to kiss her as he pushes back inside.

He's got a rhythm going and his mouth on her collarbone when the door opens. Dean wrenches his head up, catching Clara's eyes wide and horrified as he turns to see Sam in the doorway with the grocery bags in his hand. His gaze falls a long way down Dean's body, a mix of feelings painted across his face that Dean doesn't need to decipher, and Dean can't look away. "Sammy – "

The door swings shut behind him. Dean spends a second staring after, drags his gaze back to Clara, and almost laughs when she gives him a rueful look and wriggles pointedly.

His attention is almost, almost back on her when she comes, and not even remotely when he follows.

He finds Sam in the living room after he's dropped Clara back at work. Just ambles into the room like it's no big deal, making a thing of re-tucking his t-shirt into his jeans. "Sorry, Sam," he says. "Hell of a day to cut school. Hope you enjoyed the show."

"Hope you sanitised the kitchen," Sam replies in the same voice. He's sitting with his back to the sofa, knees drawn up. Dean desperately wants to know if he's hard, if the book he's reading is pressing into his dick or if he's holding it up and away from a big wet patch on his jeans. Wants to know how long he stayed and listened on the other side of the door or if he stumbled up the stairs and told himself to stick his head under a pillow and didn't.

He smirks. "I've got to eat in there too." Pauses. "How's your – "

"It's okay," says Sam. "Thanks."

Sam isn't going to move until Dean does, which means Dean isn't going to get eyes on his crotch no matter how long he waits. He walks just close enough to pick up all the grocery bags strewn around Sam's body, forces himself to keep his eyes where they should be even when Sam shifts, and leaves the room again. Wondering, all the same.

-

Sam's just confused. It's not an excuse Dean gets to use on himself. There's no reason Sam should know any better than to confuse how much he loves his brother with wanting to fuck him: for fuck's sake, he's just a kid. An overgrown, messed up kid.

Even if he is about to leave Dean behind in the middle of an early-morning run, what the fuck. Dean scowls at the back of his head, and makes it uglier when Sam looks back over his shoulder to grin at him.

"Having trouble keeping up?" He shouts it like he thinks he's hitting the horizon. (He's not.) "Want me to slow down? Because whatever man, can't be more embarrassing than your little brother beating you. Your injured little brother." Sam waves his bandaged hand in the air, grinning bright as you like, and there is absolutely piss-all Dean can do to stop himself grinning back.

"Keep running, bitch," he replies, speeding up just enough that shouting isn't necessary, "or I'll give you a real injury."

Sam makes a terrified face, just for Dean's benefit. He's dripping with sweat, t-shirt sticking to his chest while he's not windmilling his arms to distract Dean, and Dean could have told him that this is just as much of a distraction. Probably wouldn't, but whatever.

Then Sam sets off again. "Last one back cooks breakfast for both of us," he hollers over his shoulder, neatly beating Dean to it. Great fucking minds.

-

Dean has six missed calls from Sam and is over an hour late by the time he rocks up outside of the school at the end of the day. He'd put more money on being shouted at than sulked all over, but eh, even Dean gets it wrong sometimes. "Sorry, dude," he interjects into Sam's little cloud of petulance. "Too busy earning our dinner."

Sam glares at him. "Ever heard of a phone call? I could be home already."

Dean shrugs a _whatever_. "How's your hand doing? Can you move it all right?"

"I can move it fine, it's just a cut." He looks up when Dean doesn't reply. "Wait, you're not – it's _pouring_ down, Dean."

"Is it?" Dean makes a big show of acting surprised. Sam is dripping all over the seat and the wipers are this close to breaking off. "I guess it's lucky you're only ever gonna get hit in the sunshine. Very considerate of the bad guys not to inconvenience you." He pauses. "Oh, wait."

"We can fight _any other time_ – "

"Think I'm busy then. But I'll let you fight with both hands, okay, Sammy?"

Sam glares harder, eyes somewhere else than Dean's face. Dean thinks, miserable as fuck about it, that Sam is hurt.

"Or not, if you want the practice. Dad'll be back in a couple days, so …"

"All right, I'll do it," Sam says. " _Both_ hands. You're really generous, Dean."

Dean watches the lone muscle twitching in Sam's jaw so that he doesn't have to watch the fist clenching dangerously high on his spread legs. "Attaboy," he says.

-

Sam doesn't bother taking his bags inside once they get back to the house. He gets out of the car and rips layers over his head until he's standing in just his jeans and a t-shirt, wet through already and clinging to all the parts of his body that Dean cannot look at, goddamn it. He backs up around the chicken shed, both hands up, and this time doesn't wait for Dean to throw the first punch, just tightens his fist and sets his jaw. And then –

 _Christ_ , Dean is going to be waking up with the mother of all headaches tomorrow, pain blossoming in his jaw. He tests it out, rocking it side to side and prodding his tongue against his cut lip on the inside, then drops the keys to the Impala in the grass and lunges straight at Sam. He gets his fist under his ribs, then again. Sam reels sideways but recovers quick enough to retaliate with an elbow that lands half an inch below Dean's solar plexus.

It's raining so hard that it's difficult to stay upright on the wet grass and it's pissing Dean off to have to try. Sam's too close for Dean to get in a good hit, he's using Dean as a balance at the same time as jabbing knuckles into his armpit, his neck. John taught them both to fight and to fight good, they both know about Sam's left and Dean's knee and a mutual reluctance to hurt each other that always, perversely, turns things nasty, and watching out for Sam's hand isn't working out for Dean the way it should be. They're getting further away from the house and into the abruptly longer grass, and Dean can't keep his attention on Sam's fists when his mouth is wet and sneering. So he ducks under Sam's reach and lunges right at him, a little more sophisticated than the last time and with hopefully fewer broken bottles lying around, but still essentially designed to get Sam on his back. "You know," he says loudly as Sam tries to scramble out from under him, "it's nice we can do this, and still be friends."

"Fuck you," Sam snarls, bucking against Dean's weight. His face is flushed a brilliant red and his skin hot where Dean is holding him down, slick with the rain. "We're not _friends_."

"Oh, I'm hurt. What are we, then, Sammy?"

Sam's too busy fighting him off to answer. Dean shrugs as best he can, a not entirely unexpected urge to burst out laughing working its way up through his body in waves. It's probably got something to do with the way he finds himself flipped over, flat on his back with Sam straddling his thighs. Sam catches his expression and narrows his eyes.

"Something funny?" He tightens his hands around Dean's wrists and pushes them harder into the ground. Dean really fucking hopes his stitches haven't torn. Too late now.

"No," he says honestly, and then it gets a whole lot less funny again when Sam quirks his head a bit, oddly gratified in a way Dean doesn't think relates to their reversed positions.

"I thought I was imagining it," Sam tells him. Or himself. Dean frowns. Sam is fighting a smile so hard that his face is contorting as if in pain.

Sam rocks back, ever so slightly.

Dean gets himself free and upright in an instant. "What the _fuck_ , Sam?" He's so fucking hard, can hardly think for it, and all he wants is to get right back on his back in the mud and let Sam ride his dick. Sam's on the ground still but sitting up, palm pressed against his dick. Just like Dean wants to.

"I know you want to," Sam tells him, squinting up through the rain. He grinds down a bit more and Dean watches his mouth drop open. Pink tongue flicking out to taste the rain. "I know you do, Dean, come on, please – "

"You're sixteen," Dean says. "You're my brother, Sammy, you're just a kid – " This would be so much easier to remember if he was less turned on, if Sam wasn't half a second away from pulling his dick out of his jeans and jerking off right there in the open for Dean, because Dean hasn't had any practice at looking away from this and he can't.

"I don't care," says Sam. He lies back a way, propped up on his elbow to unzip his jeans, peeling the wet denim down his legs. "I don't give a shit, I don't care you're my brother, please, Dean, _please_. This, I, it hurts. Why won't you help, I want you to."

"You already know how to jerk off. Don't need my help doing it."

"Fuckin' do," Sam says at once. He slips his fingers inside his boxers and Dean can't help it; rocks forward a step and has to swallow back every anticipatory moan he's ever wanted to let go from under his covers. Sam's expression is pleading, _frantic_ , and Dean's never been any good at saying no to him.

"Sam," he tries again, last-ditch attempt. He can give in now and all the torture of the last few months won't be there anymore. Sam will be happy and Dean will just be another guy who fucked his baby brother.

 _Oh god._

Dean plucks the keys out of the grass as he runs, and doesn't stop running until he's fifty goddamn miles along the road.

-

The trouble with running is that once you start your legs going, you got two choices left to you: turn around, or don't stop going. Dean doesn't have anything like the luxury of a choice.

It's still raining when he gets back to the house, and the wind's picked up with a storm on the way. He's sticky in his jeans, damage is good and done there, and there is a reason Dean has never let them get into this position. Because right now he's standing outside the door to the living room and trying really hard not to see Sam smearing his eyes furiously with the back of his wrist, and that's _Dean's_ fault. He stays right where he is, wondering how many times you're allowed to make your brother cry without meaning to before you get recruited to hell on principle.

He clears his throat, thinking really very fast to try and work out what to say, but Sam jerks his head around before he lands on anything. "Oh," he says. "I didn't know if you were going to come back or not."

"Thought you were the smart one, Sammy."

"Don't," Sam says. His voice has gone all scratchy. "Don't, you don't get to – make out like I'm the one who freaked. _You're_ that person. Not me."

"You're the one who said it. We're not friends. We're _brothers_. Big fucking difference."

Sam gets up from the couch to stare at Dean. Dean stares right back at him, eyes lifted to his, so angry with himself for getting them here that he can barely see through it and torturously glad to have let it happen anyway. "I know," Sam says at last. "I remember."

Dean stays where he is for a long time after Sam's gone up to bed.

-

Dean wakes up to a call from John to say he'll be gone another few days at least, which is unsurprising but still gets him back for Christmas. Dean's got enough faith for himself _and_ Sam to get their dad home, but nevertheless makes damn sure John believes it too before ending the call and sticking his head around Sam's door and telling him. Sam pushes himself up the bed, rubs what looks like ten hours of lying awake out of his eyes, and only then looks at Dean and says, "Okay."

Dean stops at the gas station halfway between home and school, because the quiet is coiling in his stomach and that's probably not healthy, and because he had to wrap Sam's hand again before they left and he's having trouble focusing on the road instead of Sam's phantom fingers.

He hangs back once he's inside, deeply conflicted between chips or candy or both. Regular or oversized. Sex with your brother or –

The cashier blinks when he drops his mountain of sugar down in front of her. "Breakfast of champions," he says, propping his elbow on the counter and grinning at her. Just to prove he can.

"Yeah?" she says, and then the door clacks again and Sam walks up to Dean's side. He stands too close and doesn't look at Dean.

Dean hands the girl a twenty and doesn't wait for the change.

-

If there are any evil things around for Dean to hunt and kill, he can't find them.

Fine. He takes his gun and unloads round after round into the trees at the edge of the property instead. It doesn't give him any grand insights or make him feel any better, but he hadn't really expected it to anyway.

-

He's standing in the kitchen getting orange peel stuck under his fingernails when Sam gets home from school. This would probably be a good time to sit him down and make him promise to go get a girlfriend, a boyfriend, someone who isn't Dean, but Dean is so tired, and Sam hasn't moved. "Hey," he says instead, not bothering to sound awkward.

Sam is standing like his skin is cracking. Same flare for the dramatic as ever, he says, "Dean," like it means something. Dean continues peeling his orange.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't think we should fight anymore."

"Okay, Sam."

Sam gets closer. Dean isn't looking at him, he's looking at the counter, but he hears it when the door closes because Sam isn't holding it open anymore, and when he drops his schoolbag on the table, and when he's standing too close behind Dean for Dean not to hear him trying to breathe normally.

Sam lays a hand in the small of his back. Palm and all his fingers pressing into him through his shirt, off-center, wrist tipped a little to the side so he can push his hand in flat.

Dean puts down the orange. "Okay, Sam," he says again, and turns around where he's standing and doesn't give Sam a moment to reconsider. He keeps his eyes wide open and presses his mouth to his brother's.

They last against the countertop just as long as it takes Dean to notice Sam moaning. It's breathy and broken up, Dean doesn't think Sam even realises he's doing it – thinks he's just holding Dean in place with hands in his hair and his body pushed right up against him.

Sam draws back enough to mumble, "Dean," against his lips. Well, fuck that, Dean knows his own name and he doesn't know that noise in Sam's voice, and he isn't ready to stop learning it yet. Dean gets his hands on Sam's chest and wraps his fingers in his hoodie, presses their lips back together and shoves him backwards until Sam's ass hits the table, too high up for Dean's purposes but a good point of reference for a chair that he can push Sam into. Sam goes down without a fuss and _yes_ , he's moaning into Dean's mouth again. It’s fucking intoxicating.

Dean pulls his mouth away so he can eye the way Sam is sitting. The skinny little chair won't hold two mostly-grown men, which is a damn shame because Dean thinks an excellent way to drag more noise out of Sam would be to straddle his legs and ride him, but whatever, Dean can adapt.

"Where are you going?" Sam asks when Dean steps a little way back from the open vee of his legs. Dean smiles at him, fitting his hand under Sam's jaw so he can angle him into another kiss.

"Nowhere," he says into Sam's mouth, and then he's dropping to his knees, one hand sliding around the back of Sam's neck to keep him close, the other pushing his knees apart so he's got all the space he wants to kneel in. Dean wants a _lot_ of space. He gets his other hand on Sam's leg and pushes them apart further, gets Sam sprawling wide with his head hanging back, gets his mouth on Sam's dick through his cotton pants and presses the flat of his tongue down hard.

" _Fuck._ " Sam scrabbles for something of Dean to hold on to, caught between the curve of his neck and his hair, so Dean presses his face down further, just to make it difficult. He can't breathe but that doesn't matter, pushes his face against Sam's cock and mouths at it, his hands on Sam's thighs to keep them spread wide. Sam doesn't let up with the noise so Dean just keeps nuzzling at him, sucking on the wet that's leaking through.

He comes up when he runs out of oxygen. He has no clue what he's doing but there is no fucking way Sam isn't enjoying this, so whatever he's doing, it's probably good. He fumbles at the button of his own jeans, drags the zipper down. "This the first time you've had a mouth on your dick, Sammy?"

"I – no. Detroit. Someone at a party." Sam's voice is rough. "We were drunk."

"Oh yeah?" Dean takes a moment to appreciate the image; Sam all loose-limbed and lazy, dimpling excessively like he always does when he's drunk, head thrown back and eyes closed while – "Was she pretty?"

Sam hesitates, and Dean doesn't want to wait. He looks back down at Sam's dick swelling up under his pants and the big dark patch where Dean's mouth just was. He wants to touch it, so he runs his fingers lightly over the bulge.

"I want to see," Dean decides. He gets his fingers in the waistband of Sam's pants, undoes the button with the other hand, and drags them halfway down his thighs to get at his dick. It's straining up through his underwear so Dean gives it a good rub, rolling his palm over him and dropping his other hand to his own crotch. He presses down a couple times, that's some real good pressure there, and on a whim gets his head back down in Sam's lap. Bumps Sam's dick with the bridge of his nose and drags it all the way along the line of it, and can't get his mouth around the tip because just like every other item of clothing Sam owns, his briefs are too tight. They're wet and salty and syrup-slick and that's not what Dean wants right now. He lifts his head and continues, "Was he?"

Sam's eyes go wide. "Yeah," he says, brilliant red like what he's doing right now doesn't count as sex with a guy. (Dean's good but even he knows he's not transcendent.)

Then Sam's lips curve up some and his voice changes. "He looked like you."

Mother of fuck. Dean's gonna take that out and process it at a time he isn't nose to dick with Sam. For now he manages, "Oh yeah?" and peels Sam's briefs down over his cock, gives his balls a squeeze and tucks the elastic right under them. He narrows his eyes at Sam. "I'm better." He bats the leaking head against his mouth to get his lips nice and wet, then smirks up and swallows his dick down, sinks as deep as he can go before he gags and comes back off.

Sam gets his fingers back in Dean's hair. "Keep going. Dean, keep going. Please. Put it back."

Jesus fuck. Dean's going to need to hear that again. "Put what back, Sammy?"

"Your mouth," Sam says quickly. He takes his free hand off the table and picks up Dean's hand from his own knee, lifts it up to his own mouth and sucks, licks all around them like he's trying to get up the taste of the bitter orange pith from under Dean's nails. Then he lets go and pushes his own fingers into Dean's mouth, stretching them apart. Dean opens his mouth in a daze. "Put your mouth back," Sam begs.

Dean is fucking not going to blow his load before his teenager brother, god damn it, but Christ, what a soundtrack. He squeezes the base of his cock to make sure, gives Sam a quick lick, and takes the head back into his mouth. Sam moans so loud so quick, little spots of precome all over Dean's tongue. He reaches up as he sucks, painfully uncoordinated but getting the bottom two buttons on Sam's shirt undone anyway, done before Sam's legs start shaking and his mouth gets going again and everything becomes a fuckload more distracting. He still can't get all the way down, too much of Sam to get in his mouth at once, but he gets a rhythm going with his hand at the base where he can't reach and no one seems to have any complaints. Dean jams his palm down against his own cock.

Sam pulls him off. "I," he manages, then gives up. He drops off the chair and into Dean's lap, pants spooling around his ankles, sitting right the fuck on top of Dean's cock. He rocks where he is, face flushed and eyes bright on Dean. Dean moans some version of _Sam, Sam, fuck_ while he moves, his dick trapped between Sam's ass cheeks and enjoying the weight just fine. "Okay?" Sam breathes.

Dean wrenches his voice into action. "Okay, Sammy," he says. Sam's dick is jutting up fat and leaking copiously, and when Dean gets his hand between them and his fingers wrapped around him, tight and sure, Sam doesn't try to last. He drops his head to Dean's shoulder, head turned just enough to the side that he can bite into the crook of Dean's neck as he comes, clenching his ass on Dean's dick. Boy's gonna be the fucking death of him, and it's going to happen while Dean's still covered in his come. A great long line of it spattered all the way up to his nipple.

Sam sits up and drops his hand to Dean's chest. He dabs at the mess, smearing it into his fingertips and in little circles into Dean's skin. He's still moving kinda absently on Dean's cock, tiny jerks that Dean's going to call him on as soon as Sam stops staring. His mouth is hanging open and Dean wants him to give him his fingers to suck again, but then Sam looks up and smiles a bit and puts his own fingers to Dean's mouth instead, and that's even better. He licks all around them, sucking Sam's come into his mouth.

"Good?" Sam asks. Dean hmms a yes and lets it turn into a moan when Sam looks pleased and starts rocking harder. Then he frowns. "Hey, I think – sit down," he says, climbing off Dean for long enough that Dean has to get off his knees and onto his ass, or face up to getting himself off without any more help from Sam. He stretches his legs out without bothering to say anything and tugs Sam down to sit exactly where he was before.

Sam slicks up his fingers again and watches happily while Dean licks at them. "Will you – suck my cock again?" he asks, flushing.

Dean nods, stuck between staring at Sam's pink cheeks or down at his own hand playing with Sam's cock, cupping and squeezing him gently. Sam wriggles down a bit. "And," he says, pulling his fingers away again and sounding a little bit breathless, "can I fuck you? Or, or, your mouth? Or," his blush deepens, "will you fuck me?"

Fuck. Dean is so close to coming, precome slicking up Sam's ass. "Did you do that to your little friend in Detroit?" Sam shakes his head. "Then you'd better stop moving," Dean tells him hoarsely, but Sam obviously doesn't hear him right because he grinds down hard on his dick, leans forward and kisses him until Dean throws his head back against the table leg and comes.

When he opens his eyes, Sam has drawn back, perched halfway down Dean's thighs instead of on his dick. He's watching Dean all soft-eyed, soft-mouthed, Dean's come a gloopy mess on his ass. Dean smiles at him, making no effort to push him off. He wants to see Sam blush again. "So you want to fuck me, huh?"

Sam blushes again. "I guess."

His dick is swollen in his fingers. Dean wraps his hand around Sam's, fingers pressed in, and drags his hand up gently. "You guess?"

"Yeah." Sam bites his lip. He keeps his gaze on their hands, jerking him off together. "I want to. I want to do it on the table."

Fucking fuck. Dean tries not to think too hard, and gets his other hand on Sam as well. Then he changes his mind, and curls his fingers around the back of Sam's neck, dragging him so he's bent awkwardly forward. Dean presses a kiss to his mouth. "Table's fucking uncomfortable," he says, and kisses him again. "Floor's not great either." Another kiss. "My ass is kinda cold, dude."

Sam says, "Oh."

Dean stills their hands. "We'll start with my bed," he says, "and move up from there."

-

Dean's bed is the only double in the house. That's why they're going to start there. He hauls Sam out of the kitchen, both still half-dressed because that part can happen later, and feels all the air blaze out of his lungs when Sam slips his hand under Dean's shirt at the back, pressing his fingers against the bare skin as they stumble through rooms. He shoves Sam against the wall when they get to his room and presses a kiss to his lips. He mouths all the way along Sam's jaw, fingers working diligently at his shirt. Sam already has Dean's most of the way off, and when the last button is done he doesn't bother waiting for Dean to get finished before pushing him down on the bed. He yanks his own shirt over his head and tosses it into a corner. "I want to suck you first," he tells Dean.

"Suck my what, Sammy?"

"Your, your dick," says Sam, and crawls up on the bed after him.

Dean lies on his back where Sam puts him, arms wide and legs wide and doing his absolute fucking best not to jerk up. Sam's _mouth_ , Jesus Christ, that is Sam's mouth and it's on Dean's cock and _fuck_.

He grins when Sam pulls off and gives him a look like he knows what he's thinking, and chokes on his tongue when Sam sits back a bit more and says in a voice that's trying to keep steady, "I don't know what we need."

"Lube," Dean manages. "In my bag."

Sam turns himself around so he's hanging sideways off the bed, his dick pressing into Dean's thigh while he searches. He puts one hand on Dean's dick, rubbing him absently. "I've got it," he says, then, "and there's, uh. Condoms?"

Dean shuts his eyes. "Leave them," he mumbles, and pretends not to feel it when Sam shudders all through his body.

Sam pulls himself back onto the bed and beams at Dean, clutching the lube in his hand.

"Will you do it?" Sam asks, almost shy. "I don't want to – I want to watch."

Dean nods and takes the lube. "What do you want to see, Sammy?" he asks, popping the cap and drizzling it onto his fingers.

"I – "

"On my back? On my knees? Want me to go fast or – "

"One at a time," says Sam. He shuffles up so he's kneeling between Dean's legs, gets one hand on each of his ankles and pushes his feet up and apart. "Like this."

Dean nods again. He takes hold of his cock, jacking the shaft with his thumb pressed into the vein. "Sam – I need a pillow – " Sam grabs the pillow and goes to slide it under his hips. "No, under my head."

Sam does as he's told, and kisses Dean's mouth once he's done.

Couple more lazy jacks and Dean works his first finger inside, crooking and twisting it to feel the stretch. Sam's lips are parted and his face flushed like he's the one getting fucked, it's fucking adorable and also really, really hot. Dean adds another finger before he probably should, wanting to see what it does to Sam too badly to wait. The burn is aching and perfect.

Sam shuffles closer. His eyes stay fixed on Dean's fingers and Dean wants to tell him that he can touch if he wants, can feel Dean's hole stretch and give to take his fingers, maybe fit a finger in with Dean's two. Wants to feel Sam's big fingers work him and fuck him before his cock, and he feels kinda weird that Sam hasn't touched him yet. He stabs in a little harder and grunts when he hits his prostate.

"Can I – " says Sam.

"Yeah," says Dean, and, "fuck, Sammy, _fuck_ ," when Sam gets his finger all the way in.

"God," says Sam. "Dean. God, you feel – you're so tight, does it, does it hurt?" He pulls out a fraction and thrusts it back in again. "So tight, and you're – I'm – "

"Your dick's gonna be in there," Dean says. He clenches his ass, knowing Sam can feel it, and drags his own fingers out. Sam swallows and replaces them with two more of his own, crooks them up inside. "You think you're going to, oh fuck, you're going to fit? Think you're going to get all of it inside my hole? You're big, Sammy, you're all thick and hard and I – "

" _Fuck –_ "

"Come on, baby," Dean says, and spreads his legs wide.

When Sam starts pushing in, Dean feels it all the way through his body. Sam's cock is big and blunt and not a bit of what Dean is used to, and they're both slick with lube but Dean can still feel everything inside him stretching to accommodate the intrusion. He forces himself to relax, tuning in to all Sam's bitten-back whimpers and moans and curses and thinking _that's for me_.

"Fuck," Sam whispers. "Dean, are you. Are you." He's all the way in, Dean realises, and thrusting incrementally.

"Move," Dean tells him. "I'm fine, Sammy, I just. Move, I won't break, I'll tell you if I don't like it – _please_ – " He wants Sam to fuck him like he means it and like he's never going to stop, wants Sam to be _frantic_ with need and right now he's being a gentleman. Dean doesn't want a gentleman. Dean wants a good fucking. "Give me your cock," he says. "Fuck me up."

Sam grins. "So fucking bossy," he says, hair in his eyes and sweat on his lip and balls-fucking-deep in Dean's ass. He draws back and slams in, finally going at it like he was born to. Pounding into Dean, hands braced on either side of his face so that all Dean can see is him. His dick hits Dean exactly where he needs it and he catches breath after noisy breath.

"So good," Sam tells him. He's making a fuckload of noise. "So tight, you're so good. Oh, god, Dean. Wrap – wrap your legs around me, I want to kiss you. I, Dean – "

This is it. Sam's dick in his ass and his voice in his ear, nothing on his cock because Sam has his wrists held tight above his head, nothing on his skin bar dirt and sweat and come. Dean is hard as he's ever been and whining because he cannot fucking stop himself from doing it.

Sam's thrusts are getting more and more erratic, words falling out of his mouth with abandon. "Trying so hard to be a dick," he says, "you gotta stop it, you gotta stop being a dick to me. You think I don't know what you're doing but I do, you're my brother – "

"Shut up, Sam," Dean gasps. He twists, desperately trying to buck up and against Sam's body, fighting for something on his dick.

"Won't." Sam shuts his eyes, denying everything, Dean's stupid fucking brother, but he releases one of Dean's hands at the same time. Reaches down at once and wraps his fingers around Dean's cock to jack it, and Dean doesn't last thirty goddamn seconds before he's arching off the bed into Sam's body and coming with his brother right behind.

If Dean were a better man he'd pull himself off Sam's dick and leave him to fend for himself for the next however long until John came back. But he's not, so he watches Sam come down from his high and doesn't make one move to go, not to leave the house or room or bed.

Instead he leans up to lick a smear of something wet from Sam's cheekbone, which somehow turns into a kiss, long and wet and sloppy, the sort of kiss Dean usually hates. "I really like your mouth a lot, Sammy," Dean says when it's over.

Sam grins. He looks so proud of himself, and leans down to give Dean another kiss. "Thanks," he says against his lips. "I hadn't noticed."

"Facetious brat," Dean replies, painfully tender even to his own ear, and sets about teaching him a lesson.

-

Dean wakes up next morning when the rain starts. Sam is facing away from him, fast asleep and curled into a ball under the covers. Dean rubs his back until he relaxes, tipping onto his back in the middle of the bed, and then Dean gets up and heads for the bathroom.

The bite on his neck is red and bruising, proving his worth like a stamp on silver. Dean angles his head down to eye it better. His little brother gave him that.

The door clicks open and Sam sticks his head through the gap. His face lights up when his gaze falls on Dean in the mirror. "Hey," he says, and comes all the way inside.

Dean turns around so he can say a real good morning, so he can't see his own reflection. He doesn't want to see Sam giving that look to the monster wearing Dean's face, and it's easier to kiss him hello than explain.

-


End file.
